


Hindrances

by CatLovePower



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Blow Jobs, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Fuck Or Die, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Whump, but also a tiny bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Snippets of sex activities that go awry, and they both get frustrated because they don't get what they want. And one time everything is perfect.or5 times the sex was bad, and one time it wasn't
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 129





	Hindrances

**Author's Note:**

> While the whole thing is not supposed to be too heavy on the angst, and most of the perils are averted, please mind the tags for any triggers, etc.

1.

The first time they got together in that way wasn’t ideal – to say the least. As it turned out, witchers weren’t immune to incubus poison. So when a sweat-drenched Geralt barged into their camp, gripped Jaskier’s lapels and begged him to find him a whore, and quick, the poet knew what he had to do. He just couldn’t let his friend suffer any longer, could he?

The town was too far for them to reach in time anyway. How long did they have? Jaskier had no idea how these things actually worked, and on a witcher no less, but he knew enough thanks to bawdy folk songs and badly illustrated books for adults. Geralt needed release. He could provide that. 

Jaskier’s nimble fingers flew to Geralt’s pants and quickly unfastened them. With uncoordinated, jerky movements, the witcher tried to help, or to stop him, Jaskier wasn’t really sure.

His erection finally sprung free, and it was just massive. Oh, Jaskier had seen his cock once or twice – he had eyes, he had to look – but this was something else. He licked his lips and searched Geralt’s face for any kind of approval, but the witcher had closed his eyes and thrown his head back, panting hard. Right, the venom…

Jaskier didn’t hesitate for long, and soon his mouth was on it, licking and teasing. He was unsure about his own abilities all of a sudden – blowjobs were fun, but not sore throats in the morning. Geralt grew impatient – or rather the poison coursing through his veins – and ran a hand through Jaskier’s hair, pulling him forward, urging him to do something.

Jaskier complied and took the huge cock in his mouth, breathing hard through his nose. Relaxing his jaw helped a bit, but soon he was drooling like an idiot and making stupid noises as he tried to use his tongue but there was just no wiggle room.

The hand in his hair was large and unyielding, like the cock in his mouth. The feeling of being used, as degrading as it was, sent a surge of arousal straight to his own neglected cock. But hey, Jaskier thought, teary-eyed, jaw straining, maybe he was into it. He fumbled with the front of his pants, but he had to use a hand to steady himself against Geralt’s thighs – to prevent the witcher from bucking too wildly – and he couldn’t see what he was doing. Too many ties and fasteners, too much of Geralt in his mouth.

The witcher was rutting now, hips moving up, and his dick was hitting the back of Jaskier’s throat. The hand in his hair never moved, locking him in place. It should have felt dangerous – even if it was his very own idea – but it didn’t. The look of awe he saw on Geralt’s face when he managed to look up was striking. There was something akin to abandonment on the white wolf’s traits, so alien on his face that Jaskier just had to comment. He tried, and nearly choked, sucked some more, but apparently him trying to talk around his dick was all Geralt needed to push him over the edge.

He came with a soft grunt and gripped Jaskier’s hair even tighter. The bard tried to swallow but there was too much of it – it was either choke or spit, and he did both, trying to protest but failing. He felt proud, if anything. And confusedly horny. 

Geralt released him and flopped back against the tree propping him up. Jaskier wiped the sticky come from his chin and grinned, but the witcher was already asleep, having won his battle against the poison. 

“You’re welcome, you ungrateful brute,” Jaskier muttered, shaking his head in annoyance, but unable to really feel angry at Geralt. Nothing was his fault or his choice after all.

He draped a cover that smelled of horse over the sleeping witcher and busied himself to build a fire. There would be other nights of fun, and he was a patient man. He just hoped Geralt wouldn’t feel bad about any of it later, and torture himself like he loved to do so often, while pretending he had no heart and no emotions, ever.

They fell out of touch soon after that – not because of it, Jaskier liked to think – to live some adventures of their own and have stories to tell each other next time they met. 

2.

When they met again in spring, in a tavern outside Vizima, Jaskier decided he was still in love with that stupidly handsome witcher, and there was still a wild glint in Geralt’s eye when he saw the poet. 

All it took was a night of heavy drinking, passionate storytelling and wild music for them to finally decide to sleep together. Well, technically that wasn’t the truth, because they often slept in the same bed. But this time, they clearly wanted each other in a carnal way, and Jaskier’s tongue was in Geralt’s mouth moments ago, and everything reeked of strong spirits and cheap vodka.

Jaskier just hoped he wouldn’t pass out before the fun began, as they staggered towards their room upstairs, and Geralt littered Jaskier’s throat with hickeys.

Clothes were shed – not languidly enough in Jaskier’s opinion, not fast enough for the witcher it seemed. The room was spinning slightly, Jaskier’s thoughts were jumbled by alcohol – it stole his voice and his wits. 

But Geralt knew what he wanted, and his hands roamed over Jaskier’s half naked frame, tangling in his hair, gripping – possessive and commanding, but never too rough. Geralt was still wearing his leather pants, and the poet couldn’t wait to get him completely naked. It wasn’t the same as catching a glimpse of a scarred body in some hot springs, and being that close for real. Being allowed to touch. 

“Bed, now,” Geralt growled in his ear, and it sent tingles all the way to his toes. Yes please.

They scrambled on the too-small bed; it creaked and some practical part of Jaskier wondered if they’d have enough money to repay the owner if they broke it. They could always flee before the sun was up. 

Limbs were grasped and nipples were licked. Jaskier got distracted, and he was not expecting the strong push and shove, when Geralt tried to flip him on his back. Jaskier’s head hit the headboard with a crack. 

For a second or two, he saw nothing at all and pain stole his breath. Then he saw white; Geralt’s hair all over his face, Jaskier realized – he was still kissing his neck. He tried to squirm, mumbled, “Geralt, stop.”

But the witcher kept whispering sweet nothings in the crook of his neck. The hot breath on his skin was nearly enough to make him forget about the pain – that, and all the alcohol he drank that evening. But his head was throbbing, and he could feel the less sexy hotness of blood dripping on his temple.

“Geralt, I’m bleeding.” 

This time Geralt stopped, and scooted back on the bed with a dark expression on his face. His pupils were blown so wide that his eyes seemed black – like when he drank his sexy, scary potions of his, Jaskier confusedly thought. 

Geralt looked sheepish, as he carefully examined Jaskier’s wound. 

“It’s nothing,” he said in the end, his voice gruff, pretending to be annoyed. But the poet knew he would beat himself for it anyway.

“I’m fragile,” Jaskier whined, his voice trailing, exaggerating. 

“That you are,” Geralt shook his head and went to retrieve a damp cloth.

It wouldn’t need sutures, at least Jaskier didn’t think so, as he carefully prodded the tender area above his hairline. They could probably resume what they had started; but the air was thick with pain and guilt now, and Jaskier didn’t need witcher senses to feel it. 

Jaskier ended up spending the night bundled in warm covers and strong arms. No apology was actually uttered, but the bard knew the hug and the quiet attention were Geralt’s way of saying sorry.

“It’s not the first time I got a concussion during sex, you know,” Jaskier mumbled into the night.

“Go to sleep,” Geralt repeated, and he sounded more amused than anything else.

3\. 

Jaskier loved, a lot, all the time – and by loved, he meant fucked. He loved Geralt, sure – adventure and crazy amounts of muscles in tight leather clothes, you’d have to be blind not to be into that – but not only. He loved daughters of grumpy innkeepers and refined court ladies, stable boys and nobles. 

It had never been a problem with Geralt. Until it was. 

That evening, Jaskier sang until his voice got slightly hoarse and played until his fingers hurt. Geralt was out in the rain, hunting a barghest – just an ugly, toothy dog, not sexy enough for Jaskier to follow in such weather. People had been paying him drinks all night, mostly women who knew him from stories and rumors. The famous bard Jaskier, in this establishment? They had to get a piece of him… 

And so before Geralt had even come back, Jaskier was kissing a brunette who had the loveliest bosom of the whole town. He had made sure to tell her, repeatedly, and she chuckled each time.

“What…?” he trailed, when she grabbed him by the sleeve and nudged him towards the back door. “I have a room upstairs,” he tried to explain, “and it’s raining…” But she kissed him again, and this time she bit his lip, nearly drawing blood.

“Alright, have it your way, you mysterious stranger…” he said, drawling slightly.

It was getting hot inside anyway, he thought, tugging at the collar of open doublet. The rain and fresh air cleared his mind a little, and when the beautiful woman pushed him a little to roughly against the wall in the dark alleyway, it should have raised alarm bells. But her long, sharp nails were on his thigh, and then she was palming him through his pants and nibbling on his throat, teasing. And maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the danger, but Jaskier couldn’t deny he loved it all.

“Release the bard,” a voice said from behind, shattering the illusion.

Suddenly, her eyes shone a little too bright, and her teeth were just a little too long. Jaskier squirmed, not yet trying to bolt. Maybe Geralt was just jealous, and his mind was playing tricks on him.

The woman made her move and tried to grab his throat, but the witcher was quicker. With a low growl, he seized Jaskier’s shoulder and roughly pulled him away. The poet tried to protest, but it came out as a squeak, because next thing he knew, Geralt had drawn his sword, the silver one, and that was a mighty sight. 

Hot blood sprayed Jaskier’s face, and the woman – monster? – crumpled in a heap at his feet. It should have been sobering. Instead, arousal washed over him, making him blush stupidly. He leaned on the witcher as vertigo made the world spin around him.

“Her teeth were on your neck!” Geralt said, tired and angry, but not letting go of him.

“It was sexy,” Jaskier protested weakly. “She was giving me a hickey.” 

“More like testing the tenderness of her meal before she took a bite.” 

“Very funny.”

Jaskier pouted at the witcher and tried to stand up on his own, to no avail. His limbs felt weirdly disconnected from his own body, all floppy and tingly. He let Geralt drag him back inside, nearly tripping over his own feet. 

“You’re very firm,” he told Geralt, because he was. He helped him up the stairs, doing all the lifting. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt shook him slightly.

There was something urgent in his tone, and Jaskier tried to focus, but everything was swimming in front of him. Geralt was there, and he was gorgeous, so he tried to kiss him, and the witcher pushed him back on the bed. Bed, good, they’ll need that.

“Jaskier, did she make you drink anything?” 

“I drank…” Jaskier said, “… a lot.” He frowned, trying to remember, but everything was a blur now. “Terrible wine,” he mumbled and wrinkled his nose at the thought.

“Fuck,” said the witcher.

“Yes please,” Jaskier answered enthusiastically, and he tried to sit up, clutching Geralt’s biceps. 

“No, lie down,” Geralt grunted, and he pushed him back effortlessly. 

“Fine by me,” Jaskier said, and he tried to take off his pants.

“Jaskier, stop,” Geralt sighed. 

“No knocking boots?” he asked sadly, giving up on the pants and blinking at the ceiling.

“Why do you always get the need to fuck the most problematic person of the room? A bruxa of all things…”

It didn’t sound like a criticism, there was no animosity in Geralt’s voice. More like weariness and incomprehension. Jaskier had no answer to that one, so he just stayed silent and waited for the room to stop spinning.

Geralt didn’t move from his side, very hot and solid against him. They were both clothed and yet it felt terribly intimate – and not because of the bruxa’s wine that might not have been wine after all.

Some time after that ‘incident’, Geralt gifted him a small dagger that looked way too delicate to do any real harm. Jaskier took it from the cloth Geralt had used in lieu of a gift wrap, and twirled it effortlessly with agile fingers. He looked up quizzically over the table, and the witcher smiled briefly, sheepish.

“It’s silver,” Geralt said. “So you can check…” he trailed, not finishing the thought.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, looking up in surprise when he connected the dots. “For monsters?” 

“Hmm.” 

That was really thoughtful, and unexpected. Jaskier tried to thank him but it came out all jumbled. “So you’re not mad? That I… that we… that it’s not exclusive?”

“What is?” 

“Us.” 

Geralt just shrugged and looked at the door, as if he was already thinking about the path, looking for monsters to kill and people to rescue. Jaskier pocketed the dagger and stayed silent. Geralt was a man of a few words after all, but the gift meant a lot.

4.

Months passed, they fell out of sight, and got together again, over and over, because it was apparently what destiny had in store for them. A perpetual ballet of missed opportunities and stolen kisses.

Once, they tried to get it on in the woods, even though it was rather cold and uncomfortable – “Pine needles, Geralt! There’s pine needles everywhere!” And yet they tried, with bedrolls spread out and a burning fire.

It was nice and all for a while, very romantic, if a little primitive, until a roar made them both freeze. Geralt sprung to his feet and grabbed his sword; thankfully they weren’t naked yet. Although Jaskier wouldn’t have minded seeing the witcher fight a bear stark naked. Geralt killed the beast, as well as the mood for the night.

The next time was a poor choice from the start, but they didn’t realize it at first. Jaskier had been so excited to show Geralt around when the witcher paid him a visit at Oxenfurt – “I came here once or twice, you know,” Geralt had protested, but that was a long time ago, so he obliged Jaskier. 

They ended up in a stuffy room full of books and papers, half written songs, poems and scribbled notes. Geralt had grabbed Jaskier’s thighs, lifting him to sit on the cluttered desk.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Geralt whispered.

“Mmm,” Jaskier purred, kissing him wildly.

He didn’t care much about a few crumpled papers or spilled ink. And it was hard to think with Geralt’s tongue in his mouth and his hand in his pants. A quick handjob in an office – that he might or might not have appropriated without asking – of course it was okay, totally fine, more than fine, and what rhymed with handjob… He let his mind wander as he grasped Geralt’s strong buttocks, drawing him closer. 

That was how they were standing when the door flung open and a small woman with brown hair tied into a tight bun barged in. Geralt went rigid between Jaskier’s thighs and narrowed his eyes, his pupils mere pinpricks. But he kept his hand on Jaskier’s cock, and the poet swung his legs around him, locking him in place – he didn’t think Geralt would beat up a library clerk, but sometimes he wasn’t totally sure.

“Oh hi, Martyna!” Jaskier said, and he smiled at her like the fool he was. “Love what you’ve done with the hair.” 

She blushed and raised a hand to her chignon. “I’m bringing the books you asked for.” She eyed the desk, purposefully avoiding Geralt’s gaze, and decided to leave them on a chair next to the door instead.

“Thank you, darling,” Jaskier said, his voice sincere and casual.

As soon as she was gone, Geralt wrenched himself out of Jaskier’s embrace as if he had been burned. Jaskier fumbled with the drawstring of his pants, because the mood had clearly shifted. He couldn’t even see Geralt’s erection through his leather anymore.

“Is it because I’m a man,” Jaskier asked, uncertain and awkward. “Are you ashamed?” 

“No, I’m not,” Geralt grunted from the other side of the room.

“Then what?” Jaskier waved his hands around. “Wait, are you jealous?”

“She came in, and you started flirting, just like that,” Geralt grumbled, but Jaskier could tell that his heart wasn’t into it. He was ready to leave, and yet he hadn’t picked up his swords or stomped out of the room.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Jaskier protested, “I was being polite.” 

“While I was groping you.” 

“And it was lovely,” Jaskier concluded with a smirk, as he jumped down from the desk. “But it’s not what’s really bothering you, so stop deflecting and tell me.” 

Geralt has his back turned, and Jaskier could see the muscles contract through the thin cloth of his shirt. He half expected the witcher to storm out without a word, but instead he said, “Aren’t you afraid she’ll talk?” 

“Geralt,” the poet said, his tone serious and patient. “Half the continent slept with me, and the other half wants to.”

“That isn’t the point.” 

“Isn’t it? Then enlightened me because I’m quite lost.” 

He stepped forward, put his hands around Geralt’s waist and nudged his shoulder with his chin – it was a nice thing to be tall, he thought, and the witcher might have been imposing, they still fit perfectly. For a brief instant, Geralt tensed again, but then he seemed to melt in Jaskier’s embrace, scooting back a little.

“What if I’m not worthy of the famous Jaskier?” he whispered.

Jaskier blew on a strand of hair that was tickling his nose. 

“But you are,” the poet protested softly. 

“Are you sure you’re ready for the world to know that you’re… fucking the Butcher?”

“I want the world to know that I love the White Wolf,” Jaskier corrected, tilting his head and going for an awkward kiss.

5.

It turned out that letting the world know about their affair wasn’t a good idea, in retrospect. Geralt had lots of enemies, humans and others, and providing them with more leverage couldn’t be a good thing.

But Jaskier didn’t know that, as he sang in a tavern in Maribor. Tonight was a big night, and he had agreed to split the profits with the owner in exchange for a room and food for the week, so he was doing his best to put away any gold coin thrown his way – what the owner didn’t know about couldn’t be split, could it?

As a result, he was very much focused on his bawdy rhymes and his scheming finances, and a lot less on the crowd cheering wildly. He didn’t even see Geralt back there, brooding in a corner like he did so well. He didn’t see his eyes on him, glinting in the dark.

The party quieted and most of the patrons left. Jaskier was going to bed with a nightcap and a platter of food, which he nearly dropped when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, grasping, possessive. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of white, black and gold, and that was the only reason he didn’t fling the platter at the person’s head.

“You scared me,” he told Geralt, his voice a little shaky. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” 

The witcher nodded and said nothing. He looked clean and calm, not jacked up on potions or covered in entrails. He smelled faintly of onions, Jaskier thought with a chuckle, but that was part of his charm.

“Do you want to come over? I have a room, and, well, food.” He awkwardly showed the platter, food and drink precariously piled on it. 

“Lead the way,” Geralt rumbled. He followed, quiet but not uncharacteristically so.

The room was small and bare, but the bed was comfortable, and there was a fireplace. Earlier this year, they had agreed he would winter with Geralt and the others at Kaer Morhen, and it was about time because the temperatures kept dropping.

Jaskier put the platter on the table and took off his doublet, while Geralt casually unclasped most of his armor. 

“Help yourself,” Jaskier said, and he downed the small glass because he deserved it after such a night. But Geralt made no move towards the food. Instead he stood there, looking massive. 

“So, what was that last contract about–”

But Jaskier’s question was cut short when he turned and collided with Geralt’s large chest – not that he had any objection really. He tried to grope him, but Geralt’s hand closed on his throat. It was sexy, and Jaskier didn’t react at first. If anything, he moaned and tilted his head backward, allowing better access. He was half expecting a kiss, maybe some teeth. Instead he got pushed towards the bed, rather roughly.

“Geralt, I thought we agreed that I was fragile,” he whined.

The witcher smiled, and that’s when Jaskier panicked for real. Geralt rarely smiled, and when he did, it always reached his eyes, making them sparkle with joy. It was always brief, as if happiness was something shameful. But this Geralt kept on smiling, showing teeth and looking mean. Predatory. Hungry.

Jaskier scrambled backward, putting on a show because he wasn’t sure fake-Geralt knew that he knew. He unbuttoned his pants and opened his shirt. It was probably a dumb move, but that seemed to mollify the other man. Jaskier scooted back on the bed until he could reach behind him, under the pillow.

His fingers brushed the handle of the dagger just as not-Geralt was approaching. They nearly closed around it as a knee made the mattress dip. Weirdly enough, Jaskier didn’t worry about bodily harm at that time, but rather that it was bound to make a mess and he really liked this bed.

Not-Geralt pinned him down with a commanding hand, as the other roamed across his bare chest. He left the dagger under the pillow and did his best to reciprocate. The muscles under his fingers, beneath the soft cloth of not-Geralt’s shirt, were terribly familiar. The sizable erection he could feel, still trapped in the leather pants, was just like he remembered. The mouth that crashed on his tasted exactly like the witcher’s. 

And yet… 

Geralt, the real Geralt, was always eager to please, and so damn cautious with him. They had danced around each other for so long anyway. This was hurried, and violent. This was nothing like what Jaskier had imagined.

He gasped for air, and fake-Geralt released him just long enough to shove a hand down his pants. His fingers curled, circling his hole, ready to do more than tease, and that was when Jaskier panicked. 

“Wait!” he said. “We need oil.” 

Fake-Geralt grunted next to his ear, and he sounded just like Geralt. Frustrated and annoyed. But also impatient, and ready to disregard Jaskier’s request.

“I have…” he panted, trying to reach backward, searching blindly. “I have some here, let me…”

Not-Geralt must have gotten enough of his squirming, because he shifted his hips, trapping him. Just like a butterfly, Jaskier thought. There was something poetic in there. Especially with what he was about to do to… whatever had taken the White Wolf’s appearance.

He retrieved the silver dagger and struck upward, wildly, not sure he was aiming for the heart or the face. The blade ripped across not-Geralt’s face, missing any arteries, but the hiss and the smell of burning flesh told him that it must have hurt. The creature howled, and Jaskier hit again.

The blade lodged itself in his eye socket and hot blood gushed. Of course it had to be messy, Jaskier groaned internally. For a brief instant, he got scared this wouldn’t be enough, as the creature was still moving, trying to claw at him, to wrench the dagger free. But then the struggles died out, and Jaskier was left panting under the heavy weight of a dead body, slowly shifting back to its original form.

+1

Once again, Jaskier told the story of how he had defeated an evil attacker on his own, that evening around the table at Kaer Morhen – a toned down version for Ciri’s sake, but Geralt knew the whole unedited story, complete with attempted rape. Because that’s what it was, even though Jaskier was still adamant that the doppler had just ‘succumbed to his irresistible charms’, his words.

But the simple fact that he was here, safe and sound – and grumbling about the cold a lot – meant that he was alright, didn’t it? Geralt had tried being concerned about it, about him, but Jaskier laughed in his face and launched into another tale about past sexual encounters that had turned awry. But none of those had been wearing the witcher’s face. 

So he tried brooding silently, keeping his distance – and that didn’t work either. Jaskier wanted more, and he deserved it. The wolves knew; they didn’t even have to discuss it, it was evident in their body language, both of them. Ciri accidentally found out, but she certainly didn’t care. Smooches were ‘gross’, her words.

And so two rooms became one room – because it was more convenient, easier to heat, less lonely, safer… Nobody objected, nobody complained. 

And so that night they kissed, in the room lit by the fireplace, draped over each other in bed. A proper, sturdy bed, with a thick mattress and lots of blankets. Geralt wasn’t so sure about those, at first, but Jaskier had insisted, and he had relented – unable to admit he liked the warmth and the comfiness. 

Geralt had his mouth on Jaskier’s jaw, and his hand on his naked hip when the door rattled insistently. They both froze, silent, as if holding their breath would make the intruder forget they were here. But whoever it was didn’t try again, and the footsteps retreated soon enough.

“The door is magically locked,” Jaskier explained. “Courtesy of your witch friend.”

“You asked Yennefer for sex help?” 

“I didn’t tell her what it was for,” Jaskier said. “But I’m pretty sure she knew.” 

He chuckled, and Geralt kissed him to make him stop. 

‘I’m all yours,’ Jaskier said – not with words, for once, but with his whole body. He was lithe, and he knew what he wanted, what he liked. That was something that Geralt had always found admirable; Jaskier didn’t fuck people because he felt the urge to do so, like so many others, but because he saw beauty in them. He was always in love, even with the one-night stands he never planned on seeing again. 

“Please?” Geralt said, his voice barely a whisper. He didn’t know what he pleaded for. Jaskier’s fingers were callused but agile, so delicate and precise against his skin. The poet knew where to caress and where to grip, where to lick and tease. 

Jaskier didn’t ask for permission, but he got careful and went slow; uncorking the oil, slicking his fingers – putting on a show because that was how he was after all – and kneeling between Geralt’s massive thighs. The witcher could crush him, if he wanted to, but Jaskier never hesitated and put a warm hand on Geralt’s hip, nudging him, until he opened up, letting the poet’s fingers in, letting his head fall back on the bed. 

It wasn’t how he had imagined, and for a moment he wondered what was so great about it. Until Jaskier’s fingers brushed some part of him, deep inside, that sent sparks of blinding pleasure through his body – it was intense, but very brief, as the poet was only teasing, showing him what was yet to come.

And for once they had no reason to rush anything, no threat looming over their heads, no urgency to do anything. 

“Good?” Jaskier asked. His fingers left oily prints all over the witcher’s skin. Somehow Geralt still wasn’t sure what Jaskier saw in him – he was hideous, scarred, a brute. But Jaskier soothed him like a wild animal, patient and caring. This was everything. 

“Hmm,” Geralt said, and he wrapped his legs around Jaskier’s frame, urging him to get closer, to get inside, to love him.

“No hurry,” Jaskier laughed, “you said it yourself.”

He was stronger than he looked, Geralt thought, as Jaskier was above him, a hand on his own cock and the other brushing his hole again. It didn’t hurt, not as he thought it would. He was a witcher, he didn’t mind pain, but it didn’t hurt at all. Jaskier knew what he was doing, what he wanted, and for tonight he wanted him to feel loved.

He went in slow, little by little until their thighs touched and then he stilled, waiting. Geralt opened eyes he hadn’t realized he had closed, and gave him a tiny nod, suddenly lost in the blue of Jaskier’s eyes. The poet hit that spot again, and Geralt’s cock started leaking precome, trapped between them. He went to touch it, but Jaskier held his hand and said, “Do you trust me?”

He hummed again, liking where that was going. The pleasure build up was slower, different than what he was used to. Jaskier was picking up the pace now, sweaty and grinning like an idiot, and Geralt snapped his hips forward to meet him as he thrust in. Jaskier bent to kiss him and Geralt gripped his hair, dragging him closer, deeper. His pace was growing erratic, and Geralt came moments after Jaskier, dazed and amazed.

It was gross, mostly sticky, but also so damn good. Jaskier flopped back on the bed, panting, looking at him like he was the world. Geralt had seen him look at many people before that with the same exact heart-shaped eyes, but this time he was glad he was the object of such a gaze.

**Author's Note:**

> That was a mess. I hope it was an enjoyable mess anyway *sweats*


End file.
